


An Inglorious Death

by hellions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Assassination, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gang Rape, Humiliation, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellions/pseuds/hellions
Summary: Emhyr var Emreis has made peace with his inevitable death, as any intelligent emperor would. He has reflected upon his crimes, concluded his unfinished business, and steeled himself against the pain and fear and humiliation that he will likely face in his final moments. However, the assassins and nobles who depose Emhyr inflict upon him the one thing he is not prepared to experience.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	An Inglorious Death

**Author's Note:**

> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat Warning - This fic contains noncon and murder. Emhyr has a bad time in a terrible way. If you do not enjoy this particular brand of darkfic, this is the point to use the back button and/or close the tab. 
> 
> (Also: spoilers for one of the Witcher 3 video game endings, and minor period-typical homophobia.)
> 
> Nilfgaardian translations:  
> Gloir aen Ker'zaer/Ceas'raet/Ard Feainn- Glory to the emperor/empire/Great Sun  
> Hael Ker'zaer - Long live Emperor

"You've come to kill me." 

It is a statement, not a question. Emhyr has been expecting this. He has been defeated in the Third Northern War, his heir is dead, and his intelligence officers have reported a sharp increase in the assassination plots he has been the subject of since the day he reclaimed the throne of the Nilfgaardian Empire. The desire to remove Emhyr from office permanently and with certainty is understandable: he has depleted Nilfgaard's coffers to fund unpopular wars, besmirched the reputation of the Empire with his repeated military losses, and failed to secure a legitimate heir to abdicate to. Emhyr could have stepped down on his own terms, acquiescing to the pressure and naming his preferred successor - Morvran Voorhis - as the new emperor. He considered the plan, but ultimately decided against it. Emhyr would have been assassinated regardless, to ensure his voice was not in Morvran's ear. Due to the widespread hatred for Emhyr, his explicit support for the General would have harmed Morvran politically and endangered his life; Emhyr has set Morvran's ascension to the throne in motion through schemes and manipulation, but that is the most he can do. 

So Emhyr did not relinquish his Empire. An intelligent ruler knows his death is inevitable and makes peace with it, and Emhyr is intelligent enough to do so. And he is proud enough to know it is better to die as an Emperor under the Great Sun than a deposed man in the shadows. 

How the intended perpetrators of Emhyr's regicide succeeded in their plan, despite the reconnaissance and defense of Emhyr's intelligence officers and the protection of the Impera Brigade - perhaps one or both of these entities turned against him - is of no consequence to the emperor now. His rule was always destined to end in a violent death. Emhyr had known, deep down, that Cirilla would not accept the bloodsoaked crown of a merciless conqueror or forgive the atrocities of an abusive father. Emhyr accepts this death, and he accepts its circumstances. He does not have to worry about himself, and he does not have to worry about Cirilla. It is over. 

The group of emperor-slayers that enters Emhyr's office is made up of six men: two nobles, two military leaders, and two assassins. They did not bother trying to poison him, or kill him in the night, or sneak up on him, or catch him off guard with an attack by a trusted ally. They wanted him to know who was killing him, and why. Emhyr had expected that whoever finally succeeded in taking his life would wish to make a show of it. He is well aware of why - the only question left to be answered was who. 

That question has now been answered. 

"Emhyr var Emreis," Kurtre aep Glael says, and spits on the ground in front of Emhyr's desk. "Gloir aen Ker'zaer." 

Kurtre aep Glael is a powerful and well-connected man from a long-entrenched Nilfgaardian noble family, and a vocal supporter of Morvran Voorhis. The other noble in the group, Stigisvan Braind, is an influential member of the Guild of Merchants and a backer of Morvran as well. The two military men - surnamed Vrant and Boahe, their first names escape Emhyr - are high-ranking officers in the Alba Division that Morvran commands. The assassins are presumably following the money, and the pride of the ultimate kill. Emhyr can be satisfied, at least, that his machinations have come to fruition. His desired successor will rule his Empire after all. Emhyr does not wonder whether Morvran knows of this plot, and whether he approves of it. Such thoughts will do him no good. 

"Gloir aen Ker'zaer," Stigisvan Braind echoes, mockingly. "Very perceptive, Emperor. We have indeed come to kill you." 

Emhyr does not call for his guards, or draw his own weapon. If his intended murderers have reached his desk, then all immediate defenses have been exhausted. Should Emhyr escape from this confrontation alive, it would only prolong it. The breakdown of his counterintelligence and defense infrastructure makes it clear that this situation will repeat - and his next opponents would be uncertain. Better for Emhyr to ensure it will be Morvran's allies who succeed in deposing him. And, in truth, Emhyr is too tired to repeat this situation or prolong it. Perhaps the peace Emhyr has made with his death has come from the knowledge that his death is the only thing that will bring him peace. 

Emhyr sets down his quill on his last missive, signed but a moment ago, and gets up from his chair. He walks around his desk and stands in front of it, hands clasped behind his back regally. "Then kill me." 

Kurtre gives off two impressions: first, that Emhyr's response was unexpected; and second, that he cannot allow himself to show that Emhyr's response was unexpected. Stigisvan looks subtly disgusted by Emhyr's acquiescence. Both nobles have much to learn about the art of building a barrier to stand between their public face and their emotions. Emhyr, however, has practiced this art for decades. He continues to gaze impassively at Kurtre and Stigisvan, hands behind his back. Waiting. 

"Well?" Emhyr says, after a few silent moments pass. He looks up and across the room at Vrant and Boahe, and then at the assassins. "Who among you is to carry out your plot?" 

Kurtre, to his slightest credit, recovers quickly from his surprise. Less to his credit, the nasty smirk that stretches across his face wavers with a moment of uncertainty before becoming a full mask of sardonic cruelty. Stigisvan's expression is similar, but with an edge that is far darker. 

"We will all be carrying out our plot," Stigisvan says. "But you should give us more credit, Emhyr. We don't simply plan to kill you. Death alone is too easy for you." 

"Torturing me will not satisfy you." Emhyr's voice does not falter. His composure does not crack. This, as well, he expected. He had found it quite unlikely that he would be granted a quick and clean death. "It may gratify you in the moment, but it will not restock Nilfgaard's treasury or restore the Empire's reputation. And my depletion of both is your qualm with me, is it not?" 

"Again, you misjudge our plans. These constant miscalculations are no doubt what led to your downfall." Kurtre draws his dagger from the sheath on his hip. "No, torturing you will not return everything you've stolen from this Empire. Nothing could repair everything you have destroyed. Therefore, we've chosen a kind of torture that will be extremely satisfying regardless of what it cannot accomplish." 

It happens quickly after that. The nobles, the officers, and the assassins move with a rapid and coordinated speed. They seize Emhyr, contort him, pluck his short sword from its sheath, and shove him. When the frenzy subsides, Emhyr finds himself pinned to his desk. His face is pushed into his last missive by Stigisvan's hand fisted into his hair. Kurtre's dagger tears through Emhyr's clothes from behind: his gambeson, his shirt, his trousers, and his underwear. They manhandle him out of the opened clothing and toss it aside, until he stands before them bare save for his boots. The last thing to be removed is the Emperor's Chain of Office - this, Stigisvan yanks over Emhyr's head and throws violently across the room. It clatters onto the floor and slides until it reaches a stop against the wall, the heavy sun face-down on the stone. 

Emhyr notes, somewhat distantly, that the symbol of his status has landed in the same position that he has. 

"Gloir aen Ker'zaer," Kurtre says. Then he grabs Emhyr's thighs and spreads his legs, baring him for the emperor-slayers to see. "Gloir aen Ceas'raet." 

Emhyr's jaw sets with outrage, even as he strives to keep his face from flushing with mortification. They intend to mock him, then. This is also expected, but infuriating nonetheless. He does not struggle, as it would be futile and his failure to win that fight would only cause him to look more impotent. Rather, he keeps his composure as always. "My death is not degradation enough for you?" 

"Nothing could be as much degradation as you deserve, Emhyr." The snarl is audible in Stigisvan's voice. "So we don't intend to merely degrade you. We intend to defile you." 

Emhyr's muscles lock up. Certainly they cannot mean -

"Through what means?" Emhyr asks, teeth gritted, hoping his interpretation of the vague threat is misguided. They are men; though forceful buggery would certainly debase and humiliate him, certainly they would not prefer to initiate intercourse with a male when countless other means of debasement are available to them. However, Emhyr cannot think of a more unpleasant means; he would find even torture preferable to such a violation, which they can certainly guess, and so it is not unthinkable that they would -

"Don't play a fool, Emhyr. Fool though you may be, acting like one doesn't suit you." Kurtre moves his hands to Emhyr's backside, pulling the cheeks apart to display the most private place on his body. And then, firmly and deliberately, he presses the pad of his gloved finger to it. "I believe our intentions are clear." 

Now Emhyr struggles. Though he knows this is a fight he cannot win, and one he was unwilling to lose before, this new turn of events has changed his opinion. He refuses to simply lay here docilely and allow them to do such an unspeakable thing to his body. The suddenness with which he bucks up catches Kurtre off guard, and he stumbles back, but Stigisvan and Vrant and Boahe lunge into action. Stigisvan grips Emhyr by the shoulders and shoves him down with his full strength, each of the assassins leaping forward to seize one of Emhyr's forearms. Emhyr twists and lurches through their manhandling, but to no avail. Within moments, they have him pinned to his desk more securely than before. Emhyr's chest rises and falls quickly against the solid wood, his breaths heavy from both the exertion and the building panic. 

There is no way in which Emhyr can overpower six men, especially naked and disarmed as he is. They will succeed in their intentions. It is as inevitable as his death. This, however, Emhyr cannot make peace with.

"Have you been buggered before, Emperor?" Stigisvan asks. "Carnally, that is. You've been metaphorically buggered several times on the battlefield." 

The nobles and officers erupt in nasty laughs, covering the audible grind of Emhyr's teeth. He closes his eyes, attempting to control his mortification to a degree sufficient to prevent an emotional outburst. They would surely love to see that they have upset him. Yells and curses and insults would only satisfy them further. It is almost impossibly difficult to keep from snapping something harsh and vile at the men, from describing in graphic and gruesome detail how he would slaughter them were he not pinned, but Emhyr resists. The art of the barrier. 

"No," Emhyr replies, coolly. "However, it is apparent that you have." 

"Hardly," Stigisvan says, with no decrease in the amusement in his tone. "It seems tonight will bring you two new experiences, then - death and buggery. I wonder if you will enjoy either." 

Many men with moments left to live would try to be as aware as possible of those moments, strive to remain fully present, no matter how agonizing or unpleasant. Pain, sickness, sadness, fear - all these are experiences of life, and when one will imminently lose their life, it stands to reason that they would wish to experience as much of it as they can before it is gone forever. Emhyr, however, cannot bring himself to spend the last few moments of his nearly finished life in accordance with this reasoning. Any other miserable feelings, he would relish; even most humiliation would not drive Emhyr into the recesses of his consciousness. This, however, is the one thing that Emhyr cannot bear to endure with full awareness. 

Emhyr knows that swearing and struggling further will do him no good, and will only serve to keep him present in this awful moment. So he employs his mastery of his mind one last time, and attempts to focus on an utter nothingness that dulls what is happening to his body. The men's jeers and taunts and mockery fade into an echo of a single sound, as Emhyr hopes. However, this physical sensation and this violation are so new to him that he cannot block them out entirely. Emhyr feels the sharp stretch of the penetration of his rim, the burning friction of the movements within his passage, and the viscous gush of liquid within him. He grits his teeth and fights not to cry out or lose strength in his legs or vomit, but it grows more difficult with each man that takes him. 

Six men force their cruelty upon Emhyr's body, in the end. All six of the men who came to put Emhyr to death kill something else inside of him, one by one, until he is desperate for the mercy of murder. Emhyr does not beg, he does not weep, he does not plead, and he does not cry out in anguish. But he weakens, he crumbles, and he falls. His legs give out at a point he cannot determine, and then his body becomes so limp that holding him bent over his desk is more effort than it is worth for his tormenters and they allow him to collapse to the floor. They continue their assault there on the stone, heedless of the blood and seed that seep down Emhyr's legs and the ragged breaths that cannot properly fill the lungs of his violently shaking body. There Emhyr remains, drained and shock-numbed, struggling to live the last moments of his life as if he is already dead until the men finally have taken enough from his body and his mind that they are satisfied.

"Well, Emperor, you have served your final purpose." Kurtre's voice drags Emhyr up from the deepest abyss of his haze. The aggressive kicks Kurtre delivers to Emhyr's side and stomach, repeatedly impacting his abdomen with a heavy boot until Emhyr has been turned over to lay bare and exposed on his back, rouse him from his stupor further. "And, as you well know, there is no point in keeping something around when it has no further use." 

"Rest assured, your legacy will not be forgotten." Stigisvan's smile carries the twist of a grimace and the smugness of a sneer. "Your name will be known throughout time as that of the most despicable ass to sully the throne of the Nilfgaardian Empire. Your body will remain in the stocks in Millennium Square until your bones crumble, to be spat and pissed upon. It has been said that the thing men fear most about death is that they will be forgotten. Fear not, Emhyr var Emreis. You will be remembered." 

Emhyr does not think about the things that a man at the edge of death would traditionally think about, and nothing that he himself might be expected to: whether he should have been a better Emperor of Nilfgaard, a less cruel conquerer, or a less abominable father to Cirilla. He has thought about all these things already, many times and at great length. The pursuit of the answers never satisfied him, and he determined that any answers he might reach would not satisfy him either. In the end, the resolution he reached was to think and question no longer. The thing Emhyr thinks about now, in his final moment, is that he had expected to die at peace. The murder, the torture, the humiliation - none of that could have ruined his peace, as he had anticipated all of it. But his murderers, these six men, have destroyed Emhyr in a way he could never have imagined. They have found something to take from Emhyr when he thought he would have no more to lose. The emperor-slayers have ensured that he will not die at peace. And dying without peace is no less than Emperor Emhyr var Emreis deserves. 

As Emhyr lays on the floor, naked and violated and desecrated and broken, his conquerors all stand in a circle around him. They watch as Kurtre kneels down beside Emhyr's bruised and shattered side with the dagger he used to cut off the fallen emperor's clothes. 

"Hael Ker'zaer Morvran Voorhis," Kurtre says. 

"Gloir aen Ceas'raet," the group says together. 

"Gloir aen Ceas'raet, y gloir aen Ard Feainn." Kurtre raises the dagger, holding it up to watch it glimmer with the flames of the candles on the emperor's desk and scatter their light like the rays of the sun. "The old Emperor is dead." 

The dagger plunges into Emhyr's heart.


End file.
